Time
by Cheetachan
Summary: Once, he was straight and proud. Once, he could defend his family from any danger. Once, he was great and strong as the mountain. But those days were gone.


AN: I wanted to try writing something for the new series, so far I like it. (It seems to be the only good thing from Nick in these past few years) But I haven't seen too much of it. I read a fic not too long ago that gave a reason for Splinter's laziness, and it was a very good fic to! But I wondered what other possibilities there could be, and this happened. I'm not used to the new personalities of this series yet, and I think Splinter's previous versions are showing through a little here.

WARNING: Contemplation of mortality.

*

 _This thing all things devours:_

 _Birds, beasts, trees, flowers;_

 _Gnaws iron, bites steel;_

 _Grinds hard stones to meal;_

 _Slays king, ruins town,_

 _And beats high mountain down_

 _~JRR Tolkien, "Gollum's Riddle "._

*

Almost there...

 _Creak_

Almost there...

 _Crack_

 _Creeeeeaaaak_

 **Snap**

Finally.

With a tired sigh, Splinter leaned back in his chair. To think, a warrior like himself having to struggle just to sit in a chair!

 _Former warrior_ , a voice in the back of mind chimed.

He scoffed. Nonsense, he _was_ a warrior; a few years had not changed that -

A coughing fit suddenly hit him, almost causing him to fall out the chair he'd just managed to get in.

Oh, who was he trying to fool?

He was an old man, an old fool who had not yet let go of his glory days. He _had_ been a warrior. Once.

He had been straight and proud. He had been steady and strong as the mountain. His travels and adventures were like things of legend.

Once. But no longer.

He supposed he should be grateful his strength had lasted as long as it had. Otherwise how would he have ever trained his sons? Speaking of whom.…

He turned to look at the clock, harsh red numbers informed him it had been four hours since his sons had left. Another night of fun with their friend.

At Least he hoped that was what they were up to.

He may be an old fool, but he wasn't a deaf one. He knew the trouble his boys had been getting themselves into. They assumed that the moment he sat down to watch the television, he was dead to the world.

He flinched. Bad choice of words.

In any case, they were wrong. After years of raising them, he could tell when mischief was going on. Just by the way they tried to act like it wasn't.

They were trouble makers, from the time they were tiny. In different ways, but trouble makers every one. He could recall hearing whispers from behind corners, or closed doors. Almost always there would be a mess to clean up very soon after.

He'd heard laughs that were muffled, tears that were hidden, nightmares that were denied, white lies clumsily hidden behind half truths. And tended to every one. He had all but carved each of their voices into his memory, each precious to him.

So very precious.

So rest assured that when his boys whispered, he was quite aware.

He had heard that night, a few weeks ago.

They had gotten into a fight, and apparently lost. Lost their weapons, their friend, decided their best course of action was to try to deceive him, and essentially steal from him. (He would have to bring that up with them sooner or later. )

Did they truly think he would not allow them to rescue their friend? Did they not belive he would make an exception to the rule for such a thing.

There was a world of difference between 'We need to rescue our friend' and 'We wanted to see if one had a genie.'

That one still baffled him.

In any case, ever since that night, he was spending more and more nights wondering.

Wondering if they were safe, if they truly understood what they were doing, if their friend was safe as well.

She tended to overestimate herself, much like his sons. No wonder they got on so well.

If he could, he'd go after them and drag them all back home. He had when they were younger, when they liked to sneak around the sewers. He even humored them a few times, with a game of tag or hide and seek he supposedly didn't know was happening. Yes, he could account for every move they made.

Once, he was their protector. He could keep them safe from all that threatened them. Be it a beetle in bathtub, a shadow in the closet, or an actual danger.

 ** _Cough_**.

But those days were gone.

He supposed it was inevitable, that they would get themselves involved in an adventure of some kind.

But did it have to be so soon?

At least he had prepared them as best he could, although he felt he could have - s _hould_ have - done more.

He remembered distinctly they day he first felt himself begin to fail.

It wasn't something that would ordinarily cause alarm, but he could tell that it was different.

He grew tired quickly, became sore too easily. He had no cold of flu as an excuse.

Time had come to collect.

He became afraid. Very afraid.

Not for himself, but for his sons.

What would they do If he'd left them alone with no guidance? They would be as wayward ships, struggling to find port. This world would offer no such thing.

It may seem like an overreaction to a small ache or pain, but when you are such an age there is no telling when a slight dip will become a sharp decline.

And so he tried his best, to train them as well as posible. As much as posible, before he could no longer.

It occurred to him, though he was loathe to admit it, that there was only so much practice and lessons could teach them.

They had to learn caution, how to avoid danger, how to remain silent.

And the greatest teacher, was the one he feared the most.

It had not been a decision made lightly, it couldn't have been avoided forever, but he had hoped it would wait until they were older. Instead, it would seem it had to come two years earlier than he'd intended.

He allowed them to venture outside.

He went with them the first time, provided advice, and showed them where the streets tended to stay less active. The second trip they went on their own, and he began the process of letting go.

Not to say he know longer kept his eyes on them, the moon would fall before that would occur. But he knew if they were to watch for themselves, then he could no longer mind them every moment. No matter how much he may want to.

They seemed to handle themselves with more caution then expected, he had been proud.

Then one night they came home, and announced they had made a friend.

His joints may have been falling him, but at least his heart still seemed to be working well. They next few years were not going to be kind to it.

And recent days were no kinder, if anything the fact he hasn't fallen to a heat attack yet was proof the organ was stalwart.

 _Creak._

He grumbled and rubbed his back. At least one part of him hadn't betrayed him yet.

He glanced at the clock. Five hours.

Worry takes its own toll, and the mind has its limits.

When they first began to go topside, he would simply wait for them to return. They didn't stay out long.

But as is the way with youth, limits are always pushed.

They stayed out longer, and even longer still after they met Miss O'Neil. His mind began to fill with every dark scenario that could be conceived.

It was too much, and he sought relief. He had meditated, read, cleaned. He'd even tried his sons' music collection. None could drown out his mind.

When all else failed, he had decided to try the television. So loud it was, he had ordered his sons on multiple occasions to turn it down. But perhaps that could now be an advantage. He picked up the remote, tried to recall how Donatello had explained to use it, and turned it on.

He found relief.

The bright colors, the ridiculous programs, everything he once despised, were now drowning out his weary mind.

Such wonderful relief.

But perhaps it worked too well.

It became a refuge, where meditation had failed. But that in and of itself became a problem.

Only two short years, yet he felt decades older.

Time claims all things.

Days and nights flew by, his sons went out more and more, he grew weaker and exhausted. The worries never lessened, and heaven forbid the every do, but other thoughts grew from whispers to _screams_.

 _It can't be long now, you know your body: it draws near_.

 _It couldn't be avoided, no one escapes_.

H _ow can you leave them? They need you_.

 _What will they do without you?_

 _They will be lost, and it will be your fault_.

 _You let yourself become this; a burden._

 _They are out there, they could be killed and it will be your fault because you failed them._

 _Just a burden_ .

 _YOUR FAULT_.

Once, he would turn to meditation to drown out such things, but it was no longer as second nature as it had been. When he was stronger. (When he was younger.)

But, it seems that too, was gone.

Time claims all things.

 _Burden_.

He reached for the remote -

 ** _YOUR FAULT_**.

-And turned the TV on.


End file.
